Page 4 of A Rogue in Firelight
Yet starting over brought a dull life, and she had let it happen. She still clung to the grays and lavenders of half-mourning, which seemed to reflect her life now. Yet today she would risk a little disobedience and adventure. She craved some excitement again.
“But sir, viewing hours have not begun today,” one of the guards told Corbie.
“Read this!” The secretary poked at the letter. “Special permission to view the Whisky Rogues. Ridiculous name,” he muttered. “Guard, may I remind you that I am Sir Hector Graham’s secretary.”
“Oh, very well.” The guard beckoned them to follow.
Ellison was fascinated by the subterranean maze under Edinburgh Castle. Walls of hewn stone formed corridors that were dim and cool. The eerie light of flaming torches flickered over winding passageways cut from the living rock centuries ago.
She wanted to absorb every detail to describe it in the novel she was secretly writing. The warren of passages and dungeon cells beneath the ancient castle inspired ideas. Even more, this opportunity to see actual Highland smugglers could make all the difference to her story.
But she kept her thoughts to herself. Her family thought she still dabbled in poetry, though she had not written verses since her husband’s death. Knowing her father would disapprove of novel writing, she had not shared her efforts.
They passed the iron-barred doors of cells recessed into the rock. Through the apertures she glimpsed lantern light, men moving about, heard murmurs, and smelled cooking that thankfully masked less pleasant odors.
“Are the whisky criminals here?” Lady Strathniven asked. “It is so crowded.”
“They are further on, madam,” the sentry replied. “These are the foreign prisoners. Some were captured after Waterloo and some have been here much longer.”
“Will they be released soon?” Ellison asked. “What about the smugglers?”
“That depends on the government, Miss Graham. Prisoners of state are housed here, though most others go to the new jail on Calton Hill. The Lord Provost ordered the whisky smugglers placed here temporarily. Soon they will be sent to Calton.”
“They are only here because they generate income for the city,” Corbie explained.
“We sell a good number of tickets to see them, sir,” the guard agreed.
“Scoundrels,” Corbie said. “But the city can use the extra revenue with the king expected soon. Our office is organizing it, you see,” he boasted.
“Aye, sir. This way, around this corner.”
“Oh my, such a long walk,” the viscountess complained. “These fellows are quite the sensation this summer. A Highland man is always a sight to admire, I think.”
“So interesting,” Ellison agreed, hiding her anticipation.
“I do not share the sentiment,” Corbie remarked with a sniff.
“The newspaper accounts are thrilling. Ellison reads the articles aloud to us at breakfast. Dangerous rascals,The Courantcalled them this morning,” the lady said.
“This whole matter is absurd,” Corbie muttered.
“Adam, we are grateful for your company, but do try to be more pleasant.”
“I am sorry, Aunt. But incarcerated men should not be lauded by the public.”
“Just down here,” the guard said, gesturing.
Ellison’s heartbeat quickened. Reports of the Whisky Rogues had fired her imagination for months. Now she would see them at last. A tale of smuggling could add excitement to her novel, which she feared was progressing too slowly.
Not even Lady Strathniven, whom she adored, knew she was devoting long hours to studying Scottish history and longer hours writing in secret. The viscountess said her poetry should be published; even Papa admitted the lines had some quality. But Ellison wanted to write adventurous tales of old Scotland like Sir Walter Scott, or Miss Jane Porter’s novelScottish Chiefs.She had to guard her passion fiercely and silently.
Besides, Lady Strathiven could not keep the smallest secret, and Papa would think writing a novel was just another unfortunate impulse on his daughter’s part. She was careful to avoid distressing him. Her widowed father worked diligently for Scotland, though raising three daughters seemed to bewilder him. Caution created a dull existence, but Ellison had found adventure in writing and imagining stories.
When the notorious Whisky Rogues had been captured, she had read avidly about their adventures in the news journals. Once the Lord Provost decided to allow visitors to see the famous rogues for the benefit of a fee, she wanted to attend too.
She nearly trembled with anticipation. Not contrary by nature, she did possess an impulsive tendency to leap first and think later, though she tried to subdue that.
“Miss Ellison, you are wool-gathering.” Corbie took her elbow. “Public hours will begin soon and we must leave here before then.”
